


feelings on fire

by onakissgodknows



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Colorado Rockies, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, the author's favorite genre is rarepairs comforting each other in hotel rooms, why did I write this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-12-03 16:07:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11535702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onakissgodknows/pseuds/onakissgodknows
Summary: The Rockies are slumping and Carlos Gonzalez isn’t himself. He isn't sure anybody on this team can understand what he's going through, but after an 8-game losing streak, at least he isn't alone in feeling alone.





	feelings on fire

**Author's Note:**

> I accidentally became a Rockies fan this year. Okay, I was always lowkey a Rockies fan (okay - I was a Carlos Gonzalez fan truly) but due to certain circumstances this year I have become an ACTUAL Rockies fan, which I thought would be nice and fun and casual to distract myself from the stress of my main team, until the Rockies lost 8 games in a row and I got stressed enough to write fanfic to comfort myself. Like I said in the tags, my favorite genre is evidently "rarepairs comforting each other in hotel rooms."
> 
> Is anyone besides me even a Rockies fan.
> 
> If we can blame this fic on anything, blame it on [this gif](https://media.giphy.com/media/e8ZFvWmsE45iM/giphy.gif) which is referenced in this fic - it is Cargo telling Nolan he's acting like an MVP.

The Rockies are slumping and Carlos Gonzalez isn’t himself.

Of course, _slump_ is putting it lightly, and Carlos hasn’t been himself in months. It’s been too long since Carlos felt normal, and an eight-game losing streak is more worrisome than a little skid. A skid is when you lose three of four. Eight in a row is, well, bad.

If they’d only taken _one game_ against San Francisco….

Carlos clenches his fist on his knee. He’s on the disabled list now, hasn’t played for a couple of games, and that’s almost worse than being in the game, even if he was making an out in what felt like every at bat.

They’re on the plane on their way to Arizona. It’s pretty quiet – Tapia and Amarista are chatting softly a few rows ahead of Carlos. Trevor Story is across the aisle, asleep, but wearing headphones, and Carlos can’t fathom how he’s asleep when Carlos can hear whatever awful country song he’s listening to from all the way over here. Parra is asleep, Hoffman and Freeland are watching a movie on Hoffman’s iPad, and Blackmon is sitting in the back, eyes open but headphones in, indicating that he’s in his own world.

And then there’s Nolan, in the window seat two down from Carlos. Like Story, he’s asleep. He’s curled up in his sweatshirt with his brow furrowed and arms folded across his chest.

The past week has been hard on Nolan. Carlos has been preoccupied with himself, his own struggles, and he hasn’t paid much thought to Nolan other than their perfunctory conversations on the bus or in the clubhouse. Maybe that’s part of why it’s been a bad week.

Carlos isn’t sure if it’s better or worse that this week came right after what was probably the most heroic moment of Nolan’s career – a walkoff home run to complete the cycle in front of a full house at Coors Field. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the sight of Nolan victorious, leaping into the pile of his teammates at home plate, blood pouring from forehead where Charlie’s helmet cut him.

It should have been a turning point, should have been a moment that propelled them onto a winning streak, and that first game after had felt like it would. Nolan had been the hero again with a two-run triple, winning that series opener against the Diamondbacks.

And then they dropped the next two, and then got swept on the road by the Dodgers and the Giants. It’s beginning to feel like previous years.

But Carlos can’t let himself think like that. He can’t help the team until he fixes himself.

The plane shudders as they begin their descent into Arizona, and Nolan jolts awake. He blinks repeatedly and rubs his face. “God,” he mumbles.

Carlos looks over at him. “You all right?”

Nolan waves a hand at him, a don’t-worry-about-me gesture. “Fine. You ever fall asleep but not realize you’re asleep?”

“Bad dreams?” Carlos guesses.

Nolan snorts. “Not good ones. It’s okay, though.” He sits up, stretching as best he can from his seat. “Are we – wherever the hell we were flying, God, I don’t even know.”

“Arizona.”

“Yeah, there.”

“Landing now.”

“Cool.” Nolan doesn’t look very impressed as he slouches back – he’s tired, or he’s frustrated by the team’s performance, or he’s still shaking off the remnants of his dreams. There are dark circles under Nolan’s eyes. As well as the team has done for most of the first half, Nolan _always_ takes losing streaks like this to heart. He probably feels like he hasn’t done enough. That there should have been something, anything he could have done to turn at least one of those losses into a win.

Then again, maybe Carlos is just projecting.

“Hey, CarGo.”

Carlos turns back to Nolan. “What’s up?”

Nolan is still slouched down in his seat, looking up at him with dark, tired eyes. “Hey, we just haven’t talked a lot lately and I feel bad.”

Carlos gestures to his shoulder. “DL. It’s okay, I get it.”

“No, I mean – “ Nolan breaks off with a sigh.

Carlos shakes his head. “You don’t have to apologize, man. We’ve all been preoccupied this week.”

Nolan shrugs. “Yeah, guess so.” He has a look on his face like he has more to say, but seems to think better of it. The plane is coming in for a landing and the rest of their teammates are waking up and collecting their belongings. They don’t speak again as they get off the plane.

Carlos is alone in his hotel room an hour later before he hears from Nolan again, and this time it’s a text.

_Hey are u awake?_

He is awake, but he feels a little like he’d rather be alone. He had, actually, been about to go to bed. He sits on the edge of his bed, thumbs poised over his iPhone keyboard, ready to tell Nolan that yes, he’s awake, but he can’t talk right now. He needs to sleep. Nolan does too, they both need to wash away the past week, Carlos needs to focus on getting his shoulder better and his swing fixed, and Nolan needs to just get his head right. Forget the last eight games and be the Rockies they were for the first two months of the season.

Before he can text Nolan back, Nolan texts again.

_If this is weird I’m sorry I just can’t sleep_

He sounds a little pathetic, and Carlos can’t get his face out of his head, the way he looked on the plane. Nolan doesn’t deserve to go to sleep unhappy – hell, even _angry_ is better than sad. At least when it comes to Nolan, anger is productive. Anger he can channel into his game. _Sad_ is a lot closer to _hopeless_ and _hopeless_ means they’re giving up.

Carlos texts him back, gives him his room number and tells him to come down if he needs to. Then he stands and wearily puts on shorts and a sleeveless shirt. The things Carlos will do for his teammates.

For Nolan, a voice in his head tells him. Not anyone on the team. Just Nolan.

The knock on his door brings Carlos back down to earth, and he opens the door to find Nolan leaning against the doorframe. He’s dressed in a worn gray t-shirt and black gym shorts, and has an apologetic look on his face. “Hey,” he says, a little sheepishly.

“Hi.” Carlos gives him a smile, which feels like a relief, and based on Nolan’s face, he’s relieved to see it too. He moves so Nolan can enter. “More bad dreams?”

Nolan laughs. “No. I mean – well – on the plane it wasn’t that bad.” He puts a hand on Carlos’s right shoulder, briefly, almost like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. “How are you?”

“I’m.” Carlos considers. How is he? His team is well over .500. Despite the losing streak, their record is better than it’s ever been at this point in the season. That said, Carlos can’t remember a time in his life when he was personally playing _worse_. He laughs and shakes his head. “How do you think I’m doing, man?”

Nolan nods. “Yeah. I get it.”

Nolan cannot possibly get it.

Nolan paces the room like a caged animal. Carlos leans against the wall and watches him. Sometimes Nolan walks like he isn’t quite used to his body, like he hasn’t grown into his long legs and broad shoulders yet. It strikes Carlos how young Nolan is – it’s easy to forget he was barely twenty-two when he came up with the Rockies. He’s always played with more maturity than his age would indicate.

Carlos isn’t sure why Nolan is here, not really, but he’ll let Nolan be until he wants to tell him.

Nolan goes to Carlos’s mini-fridge like he’s looking for something to do. “Can I have a water?” he asks. Carlos nods, and Nolan pulls out two bottles, tosses one to Carlos, and twists the top off his own. He leans against the desk and chugs about a third of the bottle. He sets the bottle down on the desktop and grips the edge with both hands, facing Carlos but looking down at the floor.

Carlos watches him from across the room, his own arms folded across his chest as he leans against the wall. Nolan taps his fingers on the desktop. “What am I doing wrong?” Nolan finally asks, lifting his head.

Carlos’s eyebrows shoot up. This isn’t what he expected Nolan to say. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Nolan shrugs with one shoulder. “This week, man, I just….” He trails off, searching for words. “Eight in a row, I feel like....I should be doing more?”

“Stop it,” Carlos says sharply. “That’s stupid. How often since you came up have you carried this team on your back? You can’t do it all the time, so don’t blame yourself, okay?” Carlos shakes his head. “I don’t know how you can think like that after the walkoff _cycle_ , man.”

Nolan grins. “Well, it’s not like I’m the first on this team to do that, am I?”

Carlos averts his eyes. “Seven years ago,” he mutters. It’s been talked to death since Nolan’s walkoff cycle, the fact that Carlos had a walkoff cycle back in 2010, the last player to do so before Nolan, blah, blah, blah. Carlos knows Nolan is trying to be nice, he’s giving him a compliment, and Nolan’s looking at him with big awestruck eyes like he used to after Carlos hit a particularly impressive home run – but thinking about past glory isn’t helping Carlos right now. In fact, he’d really rather Nolan didn’t bring it up. It stings every time someone talks about the player he used to be, like little needles digging into his heart, and Carlos has to live with that every time he steps up to the plate.

“I guess I’m saying nothing I’m doing is exactly unprecedented.” Nolan clenches his fist and knocks on the desk absentmindedly.

On one hand, as a baseball player, Carlos gets where he’s coming from. Of course Nolan wants to be the best, and more importantly, he wants to help his team through a rough patch.

On the other hand, as Nolan’s teammate and friend, _come on_.

Carlos straightens and closes the distance between them. He places his hand on the back of Nolan’s head. “Do you remember that game against the Diamondbacks a couple days after your cycle?”

Nolan laughs. “The last game we won? Yeah. Gotta hold onto those happy memories, CarGo.”

“You hit a triple,” Carlos continues stubbornly. “DJ and Charlie scored, and then you came into the dugout and what did I say to you?”

Nolan rolls his eyes and looks at Carlos imploringly, because Nolan hates talking himself up.

Carlos brings his lips close to Nolan’s ear like he had in the dugout that day. “MVP,” he whispers. He pulls away but keeps his hand on Nolan’s head. “You think I’m bullshitting you?”

“No,” Nolan says. “Of course I don’t. But MVPs don’t – “

“Oh, please, Nolan!” Carlos says disgustedly. He pulls his hand away. “Everybody has weeks like this! Everybody! You ask any MVP, Nolan, if they ever have weeks they don’t feel like they deserve that title – “

“I don’t have the title, CarGo!” Nolan’s voice raises in pitch sharply.

“You will,” Carlos says. “And not just because I say so, okay? Everyone knows you’re MVP material. So don’t give me the self-deprecating bullshit, because I don’t want to hear it!” He is perhaps being overly aggressive, but it turns out he isn’t particularly interested in hearing Nolan throw himself a pity party. Not when on paper, his season has been fantastic. Nolan’s head is just in a funk, and he’ll be out of it by morning.

Nolan turns away. “Fine. I’ll go, then. Thanks for the sound advice.”

He’s has taken a couple of steps toward the door before Carlos catches him by the wrist. “Wait.”

Nolan turns back to him. “What?”

Carlos has had moments like this before. Even if it’s just a funk, it doesn’t feel good. If Nolan needs to talk it out, maybe Carlos can let him do that. “I don’t mean to be insensitive.”

Nolan’s expression softens. “Look, I probably deserve it. I’m being a whiner.”

“You’re not.” Carlos’s fingers are still tight around Nolan’s wrist. Bizarrely, he imagines lifting Nolan’s hand and pressing his lips to his palm. A little unsettled, Carlos drops his wrist. “It’s been a hard week.” It’s been a hard season, as far as Carlos is concerned, but until now the rest of the team has been able to prop him up.

Nolan looks down at Carlos’s hand, the one that just let go of him. “I just don’t want this to be like before.”

Carlos knows what he means. Previous seasons for the Colorado Rockies have meant watching the Dodgers and the Giants storm towards the finish line, inevitable postseason contenders, while the Rockies fall back, back, back, until they’re so far out of first there’s no hope in sight, and they play with the intention of finishing with a winning record. This year, well, there’s a lot of baseball left to play, but they’re close. Until now, they’ve been so close they could practically taste first place, or at least a wild card spot. Dropping eight in a row in a division this good is not ideal, but there’s still time.

The unspoken fact that hangs in the air between them is they’ll have a better shot if Carlos gets going. If CarGo becomes CarGo again.

“It’s a different year,” Carlos finally says in response to Nolan. “We’re a different team.”

Nolan shakes his head. “Not you and me.”

Carlos sinks onto the bed. “Not you. Me? You’ve seen me this season.” Carlos has no illusions. He isn’t afraid to admit he’s been awful. That doesn’t make it an easier pill to swallow, but at least he knows who he is, and where his game is.

Nolan puts his hands on Carlos’s shoulders, squeezing. “This can’t last, CarGo.”

Carlos blinks. “Is that an order?” He wants to retreat. He wants to push Nolan away and curl back into himself until he’s alone with his thoughts and his struggles so he doesn’t have to put his burdens onto anyone else, any more than he already has. 

“No!” Nolan’s hands are still on his shoulders, even though Carlos has indeed leaned away from him, his fingers clenching and unclenching like he’s giving Carlos a massage. “It – it’s confidence, it’s – I’ve watched you play for the past, God, what, five years since I came up? I – “ He falters. He’s still gripping Carlos’s shoulders, and Carlos grabs hold of his wrists. “You’re in there. I know you are. You’re going to come back.”

Carlos wishes his teammates wouldn’t talk about him like he’s an invalid. Isn’t it enough that he has to suffer through every at-bat, digging himself into an 0-2 count after the pitcher’s thrown two pitches? He does not know how to explain what he’s going through to Nolan, who has never been through a slump on this level, and, Carlos prays, never will. He doesn’t know how to explain the sick feeling he gets in his stomach when he strikes out again, or when he hits a shallow popup the second baseman can catch without a problem. He’s tired of dealing with his teammates’ worried looks and the way they stop talking when he walks into the locker room. He’s even ungrateful enough to hate when they try to help him with an encouraging word or a pat on the shoulder or, in Parra’s case, a stern talking-to directed at Carlos’s bat. God, he wants to feel normal again. He wants everyone to treat him like he’s normal again.

Carlos realizes he’s squeezing Nolan’s wrists too hard, but Nolan hasn’t stopped him. He relaxes his fingers. “You should have said something. I’m gonna hurt your wrists.”

Nolan laughs. “It’s okay. I’m used to bruises. I’m pretty tough.”

Carlos remembers the day earlier in the season Nolan had strolled into the clubhouse sporting a black eye after he’d been hit in the face with a ball. Charlie had wolf-whistled and Nolan had flipped him the bird without missing a beat. They’d all joked that he’d let that popup bruise his face black-and-purple to match their uniforms, because that’s how much Nolan wants to show his team pride.

It’s not like Nolan looks bad when he’s a little banged up like that, anyway. Nolan can pull off anything, even if he tends to dress like a California frat boy.

Carlos fits his hands around Nolan’s wrists again, thinking about how they’d look with bruises from his fingers.

This is a strange place his mind has taken him, but Nolan is in front of him with his hands on his shoulders, Carlos’s hands around Nolan’s wrists, with their faces inches apart. 

Carlos wonders how Nolan would look with bruises on his hips in the shape of his fingertips, or down the side of his neck in the shape of his mouth.

Carlos doesn’t know if it’s Nolan he wants or if he just wants to damage something, or _feel_ something….or just distract himself.

“CarGo.” Nolan is close enough to him that when Carlos tries to look at his face, his eyes land on Nolan’s lips and he can’t look away.

Carlos jumps when Nolan lets go of Carlos’s shoulder to take one of his hands, and he instinctively tries to pull away. “It’s okay,” Nolan says quickly. “I wanted you to feel – “ He takes Carlos’s hand – Carlos lets him this time - and places it on his chest, right over his heart. Carlos can feel it under his palm, _bangbangbang_ against Nolan’s ribcage.

Carlos finally meets his eyes evenly. “Why is your heart pounding?” He keeps his face impassive, his guard up.

Nolan licks his lips. “Shit, CarGo. Do you not know?” 

Carlos guesses he sort of knows. He doubts Nolan’s thoughts have included excessive bruising, but hell, one way to find out. He fists his hand in the front of Nolan’s t-shirt, yanks him down, and kisses him.

Nolan stumbles forward and there’s nowhere for him to go except on top of Carlos. It isn’t elegant or dignified or sexy. Carlos ends up half on his back, propping himself up on an elbow, and Nolan puts a hand out to the mattress to stop himself from crushing Carlos. But Carlos is still holding onto the front of Nolan’s shirt and they _are_ kissing, though that isn’t elegant or dignified or sexy either. There’s too much teeth and Carlos’s mouth is dry, and frankly, this position is not comfortable at all.

But he’s kissing Nolan, and he doesn’t want to stop.

He has to, though, because Nolan stops. “I’m sorry,” he blurts. “I’m not, uh, _not_ into this, but my hand is falling asleep.” Nolan stands up and flexes his right hand, the one he’d been using to prop himself up.

Carlos sits up and moves so he can sit more comfortably. He watches Nolan pace back and forth, working the pins and needles out of his hand. “Do you want to leave?” Carlos asks, because there’s a very real possibility he’s freaked Nolan out and he’ll never speak to him again.

“No!” Nolan says immediately, whirling around to face him. “Do you want me to?”

Carlos shakes his head. “I want you to come over here and let me kiss you again.”

His voice is sharper than he meant it to be, and Nolan looks a little startled, but he only hesitates for a moment. “Yeah,” Nolan said, his voice a little hoarse. “Yeah, okay.”

Nolan comes back to him. He leans over Carlos where he lies on the bed, and places his hand on Carlos’s chest, then presses his lips to his. This time it’s gentle and chaste, and it’s _not enough_. Carlos wants more. He wants _Nolan_ to want more.

He tugs on Nolan’s arm. “Get up here,” he growls. He wrangles Nolan onto the mattress next to him and flips them over so Carlos is on top, one of his legs between Nolan’s thighs. Nolan’s eyes are wide and dark, and he looks a little like he can’t believe what’s happening. Carlos moves his hands to Nolan’s, locking their fingers together and holding Nolan’s hands to the mattress. Then he kisses Nolan again and Nolan kisses him back like he’s dying for it, like he’s been drowning and Carlos is his first deep breath. Nolan wiggles his hands free from Carlos’s grip and puts them on his face, leaning up into their kiss.

Carlos’s mind races even as he deepens the kiss, his tongue pushing into Nolan’s mouth as Nolan arches his back to press their bodies together, but there’s one thought that keeps screaming at him. _Nolan this is Nolan it’s Nolan_. Carlos doesn’t know what to do with that – yes, it’s Nolan. His heart is pounding in his chest, as hard as Nolan’s had been when he put his hand on his breastbone.

He never expected to be doing this with Nolan. He’s always felt protective of him – chalked it up to kinship, some kind of brotherhood that comes from being teammates this long – but this isn’t protective and it sure isn’t _brotherhood_ and this isn’t, as Carlos has always rationalized with himself, just because Nolan is his teammate, because Nolan is the best third baseman in MLB. This is more than that.

Carlos’s teeth graze Nolan’s lip; he tastes blood and draws back. Nolan’s lower lip has split, and Nolan puts a hand to it. He pulls his hand back and looks at the blood on his fingers with mild interest. Carlos gently brushes his thumb over his lip, trying to wipe the blood away but only succeeding in smearing it. Carlos opens his mouth with the intention of apologizing but Nolan waves him off and wipes his lip with the back of his hand.

It doesn’t help much, he’s still bleeding a little, but Carlos kisses him anyway, this time much more gently. He runs his tongue over Nolan’s lower lip, tastes copper again but doesn’t care.

“CarGo.” Nolan says his name again, the same way he had before he put Carlos’s hand over his heart. It’s soft and gentle and, if Carlos lets himself hear it, a little bit needy and desperate.

“Yes,” Carlos says. He kisses him, keeping his eyes open this time so he can see Nolan’s reaction. Nolan’s eyes are open too, his pupils blown.

“Touch me,” Nolan says. He looks a little punch-drunk. His lips are parted and wet (and bleeding), and his chest rises and falls with quick, heavy breaths.

Carlos glances down at their bodies – the way he’s half-lying on top of him, his leg between Nolan’s thighs. “Am I not?”

Nolan’s cheeks redden. “You know what I mean.” 

Carlos does. He finds himself smiling as he considers making Nolan spell it out for him – the thought of Nolan red-faced and stammering is tempting - but he won’t do that to him. He sits up so he’s kneeling and pulls Nolan into a sitting position so he can take his shirt off. Carlos quickly discards his own and Nolan’s eyes rove up and down his body hungrily. Carlos grins again. “Don’t act like you’ve never seen me without a shirt on before.”

Nolan laughs. “Uh, the guys might give me hell if I started staring in the locker room.”

“Nolan, please, I’m very handsome. They are used to people staring at me.” His smile broadens as he places his hands on Nolan’s cheeks. “Couldn’t blame you. Nobody can help themselves.”

Nolan slides his arms around Carlos’s waist, still laughing. “Okay, I get it, you’re hot. Now that you’ve killed the mood with your narcissism, can you do what I asked?”

Carlos moves his hand slowly down Nolan’s bare chest and stomach to the front of his shorts. He gives Nolan a squeeze. “It doesn’t feel like I’ve killed any mood,” he says in a low voice.

Nolan is back to blushing. He swallows; Carlos can see his Adam’s apple bob. “Please.” Tentatively, Nolan runs his fingers up Carlos’s back, feather-light.

It should not be possible for Nolan to be this gentle. In some bizarre way, it makes Carlos want to be less so. He pushes Nolan back onto his back and straddles his hips, then tugs Nolan’s black shorts down.

Nolan isn’t wearing underwear, which makes Carlos raise an eyebrow at him and Nolan shrugs with one shoulder. Carlos chooses not to ask.

Nolan is half-hard, and his cock is leaking, and Nolan’s lying there underneath Carlos with his chest heaving and his eyes wide with anticipation. God, Carlos can’t pretend this doesn’t affect him. He licks his palm and wraps his hand around Nolan’s cock. Nolan’s breath catches. Carlos stills his hand. “I haven’t even done anything.”

“I know,” Nolan says – almost snaps. “That’s the problem.”

Carlos grins again and gives Nolan a couple of slow strokes, which makes him arch his back and shudder and make these little whimpery noises and fuck, Carlos wants him to keep doing that. Wants to bring him to the edge and watch him fall apart.

Carlos cups Nolan’s chin with his free hand and kisses him hard, muffling any further sounds Nolan is making. He kisses Nolan slowly even as he strokes him faster, feeling Nolan shake and buck up against him when he rubs his thumb firmly over the head of his cock.

Carlos breaks their kiss and presses his lips to Nolan’s throat. “Is this good?” he murmurs against his skin.

Nolan responds by arching his back again. “Yes,” he says shakily. “Fuck, yes, CarGo, don’t stop – please – “

“Not gonna,” Carlos assures him as he gently runs his fingernails down Nolan’s chest. “Gonna make you come.”

Nolan’s breath is hot on Carlos’s skin. “Oh my god.”

Carlos laughs gently and scrapes his teeth over Nolan’s pulse. He wants to keep going, wants to make Nolan come and watch his face, work him through it and then fucking start this over again – but his own hard-on cannot be ignored.

One-handed, he tries to unbutton his shorts. Nolan notices what he’s doing and, fumbling, helps – between the two of them they manage to get Carlos’s shorts down enough to get his cock out and Nolan gets his hand around him and strokes. Nolan’s hand is dry, and he’s too fast and too rough, but damn, if Nolan _wanting_ it was enough – Carlos would be long gone with the way Nolan is looking at him.

Carlos’s hand is slick with Nolan’s pre-come; he’s still stroking him, more slowly than before. He thinks Nolan could come in a second if Carlos really tried to make him.

He can’t stop thinking about everything else he could do to Nolan right now – grab a fistful of his shiny dark hair and yank his head back to mark up his neck with his teeth. Get his shorts off and flip him over on his stomach – he wonders how much Nolan would let him do.

Carlos is not going to push it. Gently he moves Nolan’s hand away from his cock and leans in to nip at Nolan’s ear. “Lie back, beautiful,” he whispers, and Nolan does, flopping back on the mattress with a moan.

Carlos manages to wrap his left hand around Nolan’s cock and his own, just enough that he can stroke both of them at once, and if Nolan moves his hips in time with Carlos – the friction may be enough. Will be enough to make both of them come, may not be enough to satisfy everything Carlos wants, because now that he’s started this he doesn’t want to take his hands off Nolan ever again.

He ruts his hips against Nolan, his hand around their cocks, watching Nolan’s eyes squeeze shut, his mouth fall open. He kisses Nolan’s cheek, catching the corner of his mouth, and Nolan grabs the back of his head to hold him in place to kiss his lips. Carlos runs his nails down Nolan’s chest again, catching his nipple with his pinky, and Nolan moans into his mouth. “CarGo,” he breathes against his lips.

“Yes,” Carlos says and kisses him again, open-mouthed and wet, and Nolan’s over the edge, shaking and moaning as he comes. Carlos strokes him through it and then he’s gone too, burying his face in the crook of Nolan’s neck and mouthing at his skin as he comes down from his orgasm. He thinks he says Nolan’s name a few times, in between curses. It’s so, so fucking good.

Nolan’s gently rubbing his back when Carlos comes back to himself. His hand is sticky, and he blindly reaches for something to wipe it on. He ends up with Nolan’s shirt, and he wipes his hand clean before dabbing gently at Nolan’s stomach, which is also sticky and gross with come, and getting _sticky and gross_ all over Carlos.

“Is that my shirt?” Nolan asks, opening his eyes.

“Sorry,” Carlos says. “I’ll let you borrow one.”

“It’s not very good at cleaning.”

“No,” agrees Carlos.

Nolan begins extracting himself from Carlos’s arms. “Kind of wanna shower.”

“Oh.” Carlos lets go of Nolan and rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling. Nolan will shower, and then Nolan will leave, and tomorrow – what? How do they face each other tomorrow? How can they walk into the visitors’ clubhouse and pretend this didn’t happen?

To Carlos’s surprise, Nolan grabs him by the hand. “C’mon. You’re not going to sleep without cleaning up.”

He lets Nolan pull him to his feet and into the bathroom. Nolan runs water for the shower and kisses Carlos while it warms, then he kisses Carlos again once they’re under the spray, water soaking their hair and dripping from their noses. Carlos turns his back to him to wash and rinse his hair and Nolan wraps his arms around his waist from behind, pressing his face into his back.

They stay under the water until it gets cold and Carlos shuts it off.

Once they’re back in the bedroom, Nolan kneels on the bed, dressed in sweatpants and a shirt he borrowed from Carlos and hugging a pillow to his chest. “Hey, CarGo?”

Carlos is rummaging through his suitcase for a clean shirt. “Yes?”

“If you hit a home run in your first game off the DL, you know that means we gotta do this again.”

Carlos turns to Nolan, smiling as he unfolds a shirt. “Hmm.” He tugs the shirt over his head. “And if I don’t?”

Nolan grins. “If you don’t, well. I guess it’s lucky for me you’re not superstitious, huh?”

Carlos lies down on the bed next to him. “Yeah.” He laces his fingers through Nolan’s and lifts his hand to press a kiss to the back of it. He smirks at Nolan. “Lucky you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Become a Rockies fan, they said. It'll be fun, they said. 
> 
> Thanks to the person who read this and encouraged me with this even though this isn't your team, you know who you are.
> 
> Title is from "Bad Liar" by Selena Gomez which isn't a song that really fits this fic at all but the line works and I may have been listening to "Bad Liar" on repeat while writing it.


End file.
